Here we are. Here we are, gathered to celebrate the oldest continually practiced ritual in the Western world, to retell what is arguably the best known of all stories, to take part in the most widely practiced Jewish holiday. Here we are as we were last year, and as we hope to be next year. Here we are, as night descends in succession over all of the Jews of the world, with a book in front of us.

Jews have a special relationship to books, and the Haggadah has been translated more widely, and reprinted more often, than any other Jewish book. It is not a work of history or philosophy, not a prayer book, user's manual, timeline, poem, or palimpsest—and yet it is all of these things. The Torah is the foundational text for Jewish law, but the Haggadah is our book of living memory. We are not merely telling a story here. We are being called to a radical act of empathy. Here we are, embarking on an ancient, perennial attempt to give human life—our lives—dignity.

Here we are: Individuals remembering a shared past and in pursuit of a shared destiny. The seder is a protest against despair. The universe might appear deaf to our fears and hopes, but we are not—so we gather, and share them, and pass them down. We have been waiting for this moment for thousands of years—more than one hundred generations of Jews have been here as we are—and we will continue to wait for it. And we will not wait idly.

Welcome! We are so thrilled you've all decided to join us for Passover this year. Before we get started, Peter is going to give a quick Zoom overview, and check to make sure we're all ready to go.

Zoom Overview: How to mute and un-mute; we will be breaking up into smaller break-out groups throughout the seder, to encourage discussion. Seder Set Up: Does everybody have all the supplies, or substitutions? Is everything with you at the table?

Now, we turn to you! We'd love for you to introduce yourselves to one another. Please share your names, where you're calling from, and tell us....

Introductions.

Okay! A few words more before we begin. I want to start by giving a shout-out to the amazing Robin Kornhaber, who is the reason we're all here tonight. Her seders are a beautiful family tradition that I missed very much after moving away—so much so that two years ago, I decided to start holding seders of my own to keep the tradition going out here in Tucson.

This year, of course, things are different. We are all under quarantine; a pandemic has struck the planet. Unlike last year, or the years of my childhood, we can't gather together around a table, share the same meal, or be in community with one another. This is no small loss. At a moment in our lives when we need physical community the most, we are obligated not to seek it out. That hurts.

At the same time, it is only because of the pandemic that Peter and I were inspired to take this seder into a virtual space and (as the Haggadah urges us to do) invite everybody to attend! Just because we can’t hold a seder in exactly the same traditional way does not mean that Passover is beyond our reach. As a matter of fact, the seder itself—now an ancient tradition—is the result of innovation in response to crisis. Two thousand years ago, Jews celebrated this holiday by sacrificing lambs at the Temple in Jerusalem—but after the Roman conquest, the ritual of the seder was born to fill the gap left by the Temple's destruction, and has continued to evolve ever since. 

For those who have never celebrated Passover before, we gather tonight to celebrate the journey of the ancient Israelites from slavery to freedom—the moment in our history in which the Jews became a people. We tell the story of our deliverance from Egypt using symbols on our seder plate and at our seder table, whose meanings we explore.

The Exodus, however, is not just a Jewish story. Jewish or not, religious or not, Passover is a timeless, limitless story about personal and collective liberation. It is a story that transcends difference, and speaks to us all, and we’re so glad you have all joined us to help tell it tonight.

In fact, Passover is a fitting holiday for a time like right now. The seder has long been a ritual for finding hope amid darkness. In that spirit, let us begin by kindling this evening's candles.

In Jewish tradition, lighting candles and saying a blessing over them marks a time of transition, from the day that is ending to the one that is beginning, from ordinary time to sacred time. Lighting the candles is an important part of our Passover celebration because their flickering light reminds us of the importance of keeping the fragile flame of freedom alive in the world.

Light the candles and say the blessing:

How Dark the Beginning

All we ever talk of is light—
let there be light, there was light then,

good light —but what I consider
dawn is darker than all that.

So many hours between the day
receding and what we recognize

as morning, the sun cresting
like a wave that won’t break

over us—as if  light were protective,
as if  no hearts were flayed,

no bodies broken on a day
like today. In any film,

the sunrise tells us everything
will be all right. Danger wouldn’t

dare show up now, dragging
its shadow across the screen.

We talk so much of  light, please
let me speak on behalf

of  the good dark. Let us
talk more of how dark

the beginning of a day is.

–Maggie Smith,  Poetry, February 2020

All Jewish celebrations, from holidays to weddings, include wine as a symbol of our joy—not to mention a practical way to increase that joy. In fact, on Passover, we drink four cups of wine, to soften our edges and dissolve any barriers between us and our happiness and freedom. But first, we offer a blessing. Despite the distance between us, we have gathered for this seder tonight because we are held together by bonds of family and friendship that even a global crisis cannot break. Though this year we celebrate in our own separate spaces, let us take a moment to take joy in our togetherness, even far apart.

(Together, In Unison)
With a blessing, we lift our wine, our symbol of joy; let us welcome the festival of Passover!

Drink the first cup of wine!

During a traditional seder, we typically wash our hands twice: now, without a blessing, to get us ready for the rituals to come; and then again later, with a blessing, to prepare us for the meal.

Tonight we are going to do things a little differently! After all, hand-washing has suddenly taken on new meaning this year. It's such a simple act, but as we have lately been reminded, it has enormous consequences, making clear just how connected we all truly are. In this time of sickness, hand-washing is one way to turn our fear into an act of care and concern, by making the effort to keep ourselves and others safe and whole.

In that spirit, it's time to wash your hands, and sing your favorite twenty-second song. On your marks, get set, go!

Wash your hands and sing! When you're fully scrubbed, return to the seder.

Welcome back. Now that we have washed our hands, let's take a moment to cleanse and clear our minds as well, so we can engage fully in tonight's ritual.

First, I invite you to look around you. What are five things you can see? Notice things you hadn’t noticed before. Maybe the flickering of the candlelight, or a knick-knack in the room, or a shadow on the wall. 

Now, close your eyes. Bring your awareness to four things that you can feel. Maybe you can feel the pressure of your feet on the floor, your shirt resting on your shoulders, or the temperature on your skin.

Now, take a moment to note three things that you can hear. Notice all the background sounds you had been filtering out, such as birds chirping, or your neighbors moving around next door, or cars on the street.

Take a deep breath. What are two things that you can smell?

Lastly, notice one thing that you can taste. You can take a sip of a drink, simply notice how your mouth tastes, or even “taste” the air to see how it feels on your tongue.

Now, let us begin.

Like many of our holidays, Passover combines a celebration of an event from our Jewish memory with a recognition of the cycles of nature. As we remember the liberation from Egypt, we also recognize the stirrings of spring and rebirth happening in the world around us. To symbolize this awakening, we now take a green vegetable, like parsley, and dip it twice into salt water.

If the vegetable represents new life and growth, then the salt water we dip it in reminds us of the tears our ancestors shed in the land of Egypt--as well as the tears of all people who have been and are still enslaved. Though the Jewish people may have left Egypt, many people around the world are still waiting to be freed, both literally and metaphorically.

The symbolism of the karpas feels especially meaningful this year. Many of us are stuck inside, and the few moments we are able to spend outdoors, or feel the fresh spring air coming through our open windows, are revitalizing. Yet we also can't forget how dire our circumstances are, and how high the stakes. The karpas gives us this tension, between the aliveness of spring and the weight of suffering. Just like the Passover story, there is no denying we are a society on the cusp of seismic change. It is up to all of us to determine the direction of the change we know is coming.

Pass the green vegetable to each person at your table, and dip it twice in salt water. 

Here's what we know about change. It starts small. It starts like a seed: self-protection cracks, roots reach down and grab hold. The seed swells, and tender shoots push up toward light.

This is karpas: spring awakening growth. A force so tough it can even break stone.

Eat the karpas as the blessing is recited / *NARROW DOWN TO ONE POEM:

surely i am able to write poems
celebrating grass and how the blue
in the sky can flow green or red
and the waters lean against the
chesapeake shore like a familiar,
poems about nature and landscape
surely     but whenever i begin
"the trees wave their knotted branches
and . . ."     why
is there under that poem always
an other poem?

—Lucille Clifton

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.

—Adrienne Rich

I want to tell you something. This morning
is bright after all the steady rain, and every iris,
peony, rose, opens its mouth, rejoicing. I want to say,
wake up, open your eyes, there’s a snow-covered road
ahead, a field of blankness, a sheet of paper, an empty screen.
Even the smallest insects are singing, vibrating their entire bodies,
tiny violins of longing and desire. We were made for song.
I can’t tell you what prayer is, but I can take the breath
of the meadow into my mouth, and I can release it for the leaves’
green need. I want to tell you your life is a blue coal, a slice
of orange in the mouth, cut hay in the nostrils. The cardinals’
red song dances in your blood. Look, every month the moon
blossoms into a peony, then shrinks to a sliver of garlic.
And then it blooms again.

—Barbara Crooker

The time has come to take a break! Let's all pause, nosh on our appetizers, and catch up a bit in our smaller break-out groups.

If you're looking for a conversation starter, why not consider this question:

Is there someone — or multiple people — in your family’s history who have made their own journey to freedom?

We'll bring you back to the full seder in 10 minutes.

Open the door as a sign of hospitality. Lift up the matzah for all to see.

On Passover, we eat matzah in memory of the quick flight of our ancestors from Egypt, who had no time for their bread to rise before they fled to freedom.

There are three pieces of matzah stacked on the table. We now break the middle matzah into two pieces. You should wrap up the larger of the pieces and (at some point between now and the end of dinner) hide it. This piece is called the afikomen--literally “dessert” in Greek. We will not conclude our seder until the missing piece (the Afikomen) is found and reunited.

The reading which follows is in Aramaic, the everyday language of Talmudic-era Jews. We will also read it aloud in English. It is supposed to be understandable by everyone, because it is not a prayer, but an invitation.

When saying that traditional line — let all who are hungry come and eat — we must also recognize the stark contrast between the generosity of the Jewish people expressed in this invitation, and the actual reality in which we are living.

A reality in which government officials have proposed letting a million or more Americans die in order to support the stock market.

A reality in which the workers on whom our country relies are barely paid minimum wage, denied paid sick leave, and forced to work in unsafe conditions.

A reality in which, even when when a pandemic is not upon us, our government passes tax legislation that returns hundreds of billions of dollars to the already wealthy, while claiming we don't have the money to support the poor, the homeless, and the hungry.

Are all who are hungry truly able to eat anywhere, let alone with us? How many of us would really invite a hungry stranger into our house today? How can we correct the systemic problems that create hunger, poverty, and oppression?

Some food for thought as we 

Next we read about the ceremonial foods (and have a nibble), as follows:

Reader: Pesakh helps us remember and personalize the liberation from slavery by presenting us with ceremonial foods.  (Raises the green vegetable from the ceremonial plate, dips in salt water):   This is the green of the earth; this is the salt of the sea.

All: We must learn to care for the earth, which nourishes us with food, air and water.  (Dip and eat.)

Same Reader  (raises egg):  This is the gift of fertility, the creation of life.

All  (raise egg):  We must celebrate the cultivation of life, and disempower those who cultivate death.  (Dip and eat.)

New Reader  (raises matzoh):  This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. It has no leavening; it reminds us of the quick bread that our ancestors had to make as they rushed away from Egypt.

All  (raise matzoh):  Let us remember all who are hungry tonight, and try to feed them.  (Eat)

New Reader  (raises bitter herb) :  This is maror, the bitter herb that represents the bitterness of slavery, of war, of oppression of any kind.

All  (take a piece of bitter herb):  Let us remember all who are tasting bitterness tonight, and try to relieve them.  (Eat.)

Same Reader  (raises kharoses) :  This is kharoses, the sweet concoction that reminds us that even in our suffering there is sweetness in life.

All  (raise kharoses) : Let us appreciate how our lives are filled with sweetness and graced with abundance.  (Eat.)

New Reader:  Also on our ceremonial plate is an orange, a fruit of  the Middle East, with a scent that can fill a room and juice that can strengthen our vision. What does it represent?

All: It stands for the innovation and leadership that women have brought to the Jewish tradition in modern times, and to the struggle for justice throughout history.

Reader: And why is there an olive on our seder plate?

All: Because for millennia  the olive branch has been the symbol of peace, and we seek to make peace where there has been war.